


Six of one

by N N West (raynewton)



Category: The Professionals
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-06
Updated: 2013-11-06
Packaged: 2017-12-31 16:45:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1033984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raynewton/pseuds/N%20N%20West
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Doyle flatly refuses to believe Bodie has been killed</p>
            </blockquote>





	Six of one

Six of One by NN West

 

The strange thing was, they kept insisting that Bodie was dead.

Doyle heard it first from the doctor, when he asked how his partner was.

"I'm sorry, Mr Doyle," she said with hurried but genuine sypmathy. "As I understand it, the witness who got you out of the car was certain Mr Bodie was killed on impact. When the fire took hold, well... there was nothing anyone could do. I'm really sorry."

Doyle stared at her. "No," he said flatly, turning away. "He's not, you know."

 

When Doyle woke in the morning Murphy was slouched in a chair in the corner, his nose buried in the Daily Mirror.

"Hi, Ray," he said. "How're you feeling?"

"Rough."

"Not surprised. You were pretty banged up by all accounts. You've got a long course of physio ahead of you, old son." He paused. "Is there anything I can get for you? Anything you need?" 

"Bodie."

"Look, Ray... I know they've told you-"

Doyle shook his head. "Save your breath, Murph. It's not true."

 

Cowley came at last, grey-faced and grieving. "I'm told you're in denial," he said, taking the chair by the bed.

"Nothing to deny. Tell me we at least got the bastards."

"Aye, we did. What are your plans now?

Doyle shruuged. "I'm being transferred tomorrow, and I'll be doing my damndest to get back on the squad."

"You'll have all the support and help we can give," Cowley promised. "However, it's not only your physical state, you know."

"Ah yes, my irrational conviction. I'll wish Ross luck with that."

Cowley sighed. "One thing at a time. Just tell me - why are you so sure?"

Doyle shrugged. "Because I know."

 

The rehab unit was one of the best of its kind. The physios were patient but firm, and Doyle's own need to get back on his feet ensured his complete cooperation. Progress was slow but consistent, and he accepted that with quiet determination.

His fellow agents dropped in to visit at irregular intervals, and he was grateful for their cheerful banter. Only once did Anson make the mistake of trying to talk about Bodie, but he quickly fell silent in the face of Doyle's determined ignoring him.

That visit led to a bad night for Doyle. He had not been able to avoid hearing his fellow agent's words, and the images conjured up had devastated him

Anson had spoken of... Doyle refused to call it Bodie's funeral. He shuddered at the thought of a coffin containing what the others believed were the pitiful remains of the man he loved. The fire had been so devastating that they could not make a positive identification, but as Cowley had said when he tried to persuade Doyle to attend - who else could it be? Doyle neither knew nor cared - it simply wasn't Bodie.

The next time Anson came he did not repeat his mistake, and Doyle greeted him with a smile. They smuggled him out of the unit on that occasion, heading like truant schoolboys for a trip to the pub.

 

The next day Doyle was suprised to receive a visit from a man he didn't recognise. 

"Adam Thomas, Mr Doyle," he said in greeting. "You left this in the pub last night. The barman said you were staying here, and as I was passing I said I'd drop it off."

"Thanks," Doyle replied, taking the envelope held out to him. "I appreciate it."

The two men chatted for a few moments, then Thomas said, "Well, I must be on my way. Nice meeting you, Mr Doyle."

"You too. Thanks again." 

Thomas waved his hand in a curious gesture, thumb and forefinger  
briefly circling his eye. "Be seeing you," he called as he strode away.

Doyle knew he had not left anything in the pub. He smiled in delighted vindication as the contents slid into his hand - a broken watch.

 

"Superman," he whispered.

 

Eventually Doyle was deemed fit enough to be allowed to return to his flat. He would be allowed a few days to settle in, then would report to Macklin for a full assessment.

He was almost certain that he would achieve Macklin's rigorous standards, but couldn't help a wry grin as he thought of the sessions he had undergone with Kate Ross. Though she hid it well, the woman seemed to take it as a personal slight that he refused even to discuss Bodie, much less agree with the accepted wisdom that the man was dead. Looked as though that was going to be the stumbling block to any return to CI5. Always supposing, of course, the offer was made - or indeed wanted.

Doyle was packed and ready to leave when a phone call came from Betty.

"I'm sorry, Ray, but there's been a change of plan. Murphy was going to open up your flat, then come and collect you, but there's been an all-hands callout."

"Don't worry about it," Doyle said easily. "I'll get a taxi."

"What about your flat? The heating won't be on, there's no food in..."

"No problem. It's not that cold, and I'll soon get things in order. As for supplies, there's a pretty decent corner shop not too far away. I'll be fine."

"If you're sure," Betty said doubtfully. "I could run over in my lunch hour, bring you a few essentials."

"Bless you for the thought, but don't worry - I'll enjoy getting back to normal. See you soon."

 

The climb to his second floor flat was accomplished without a twinge - the intensive physio had really paid off. Doyle closed and locked the door and leaned back against it, absorbing the ambience he had half expected, half had not dared to hope for.

The flat was warm, just the temperature he preferred. His current favourite album was playing softly on the record deck. There was the aroma of - Doyle sniffed - shepherd's pie keeping warm in the oven.

As he headed for the kitchen something reflected in the mirror above the fireplace caught his eye, and he turned to see the absurd figure of a red-clad golly propped in one of the armchairs.

Grinning broadly, he continued towards the kitchen. Fridge and cupboards were well stocked with his normal food and a few treats that he seldom allowed himself.

On the table was a vaccuum flask of tea just his preferred strength, and a plate holding a sliced swiss roll - it was no surprise to notice that one piece was missing.

Helping himself to a slice and a cup of tea, he walked over to gaze out of the window at the familiar street scene below. There was nothing much happening. Two children were playing on the steps of the house opposite. A sleepy cat sprawled indolently in the sunshine. A few yards down the street two men seemed to be ending an animated conversation; as they parted both waved their hands in a gesture that seemed vaguely familiar.

Turning to select another slice of cake, Doyle shrugged - the latest fad, maybe, he thought. It wasn't important.

 

Doyle stirred, yawned and opened his eyes, realising that he had fallen asleep on the couch. Seven o'clock - he must have been more tired than he had realised. He turned his head, wondering what was different about the room. Through the half-closed blind sunlight sparked a reflection in the mirror- 

Abruptly he sat up. As he knew from previous all-nighters, this room didn't get the morning sun. He stood up and crossed to the window, closing his eyes as he raised the blind.

Taking a deep breath, Doyle opened his eyes onto a landscape utterly changed. Instead of the slightly shabby London street, a panorama of brightly coloured buildings, flowers and greenery lay before him.

As he gazed, the telephone rang. He lifted the receiver, faintly surprised at how calm he felt. A voice spoke immediately.

"Good morning, Mr Doyle. All questions will be answered. Your transport will arrive in thirty minutes. Be seeing you."

Doyle explored further, finding a bedroom containing - as far as he could see - all his possessions. He showered and changed, then headed for the front door.

He stood on a cobbled pavement outside a small cottage in a street of similar but individual buildings. As he gazed around a brightly coloured golf cart whizzed around the corner.

With a cheery, "Morning, Mr Doyle," the driver beckoned him aboard then set off at a surprising speed.

Doyle wondered at the almost surreal surroundings as they headed for an imposing green-domed building. Its door opened as the cart stopped, and the man he had known as Adam Thomas appeared, wearing the traditional garb of a butler.

"Welcome, Mr Doyle. Number Two is waiting for you." Thomas indicated a door, which swung open as he approached then closed behind him. 

Doyle stepped forward, his eyes fixed on the man who waited for him.

"Hello, Ray," said Bodie. "Welcome to The Village."


End file.
